That too, Argent. I'm not sure if I'd want it to be a children's book; "egotistical" & "regurgitated" aren't exactly words you'd expect to see in one, y'know? Otherwise, I definitely see your point. It's got the "children's book" vibe.

Dinny, how the heck is little ol' me a genius?! LOL!!

Last edited by StarFireSong on Fri Sep 17, 2010 11:36 pm; edited 1 time in total

I don't like to double-post, but I figured I'd share the prologue of Xenoearth with all of you.

It's also up on my newly-created DeviantArt page; just look up ArgentFang. (Someone else actually took the name Bluelupine on there, I'm curious to see what they're like.)

Prologue

Gothic Shadows

How long has it been since he had known what it felt like to be alive? Sure, he had seen things that people only read about now, but now he merely wished for death. A death that would not come so long as this "thing" was engraved on the back of his left hand; something that he had known for ages. This rune was little more than a prison for his soul now, ready to add him to the collection already residing in it.

It'd have to wait until he met something that could kill him, or find a successor to his power. Now that was a thought. Who'd be fool enough to accept such a fate? Running the hand through his now white hair, he surveyed the overlying city from the darkness. Well, what parts he could make out from the Shadow Plane, the place where the vile vestiges of souls end up. Its influence is twisting, malignant, ready to warp you into a being of its will at a moment's notice.

Thankfully, the rune gave him influence over all things of darkness, including this plane of existence; he could come and go as he pleased untainted by its desiccating touch. His companion was not so protected, however. She was a beautiful, scantily clad woman that didn't look a day past twenty. Long auburn hair with eyes of a rich hazel, Lilith visibly shivered as they watched for something, anything.

"Why are we here?" she asked. You'd think she'd choose an outfit that was more comfortable. She wore a red and gold bra and panties with matching wrist and ankle braces and not a stitch more.

"Can't you feel it in the air?" he asked her, arching an eyebrow. "The ley lines are beginning to pulse again for the first time in about five hundred years."

December 21, 2012. That was today's date, a day that was prophesized by the Mayans to be a date of major change. Other religions claim it to be the end of all things, an apocalyptic event. He could sense the mana seeping through the soil as it worked its way up from the core of the world; such a surge could have many untold effects. There was something else with the mana. He studied the flows a bit longer and his heart skipped a beat; startled to find that it still beat at all after all these years.

"There's...shadow stuff weaved in with the mana!" he shouted. That was a mistake. He could feel the darkness starting to shift toward him, directing some sort of malevolent beast toward him. He could more than handle himself, but Lilith was a bit of a liability. He couldn't put her at risk like that, so he grabbed her arm and shifted back into the Material Plane.

They shifted into an alleyway in some part of the place called New York City. It was a tad difficult to keep track of all the names of new cities that sprung up and seemed to die off just as quickly. Living - no, existing - for eight hundred years would do that to a person. Yet even though they were back in the land of the living, that cold, dead feeling of the Shadow Plane lingered beneath his feet, its dark eldritch tendrils creeping from the earth trying to find suitable hosts for their power. He knew exactly what they sought out.

The crashing of windows and the screams of people were enough to alert him to the presence of something coming out of a city morgue. There were zombies of the recently departed ambling out of the morgue - a lot of them. He wondered how long it would take the police to respond, though he doubted their ability to deal with them. With a sigh, he reached underneath his long black coat and revealed a long staff. He spun it around in a circle in a practiced motion, and a long black blade of umbral energy sprang to life from one end. He would be the reaper of the undead this night.

"What are you doing, Goth?!" Lilith shrieked, "They'll see us!" Goth was the name that Lilith gave to him because she saw some show on television of a man that dressed in a similar fashion. He had forgotten his real name long ago, so Goth would have to do.

"Just doing a little street cleaning," he replied off-handedly. It felt like eons since he had to use his scythe, but the time away from its grip had done nothing to mitigate his abilities.

One by one, Goth hewed his way through the group of undead, using the scythe like a farmer cutting wheat. The ichor coming from the wounds of the creatures was absolutely putrid, but acceptable in the face of sending the creatures back to where they belonged. The dead had no business walking around. Thinking about that, he laughed out loud, looking very much like a madman to the onlookers.

"Return from whence you came, stuff of the shadows!" Goth called out dramatically as he wove a blanket of darkness to envelop each of the now still corpses, corpses brought back with magic and the victims of the zombies. The bodies were swallowed by the darkness and pulled into the Shadow Plane, where they couldn't be used again. However, sending them there would fully corrupt the empty vessels, eventually turning them into something far more evil and foul. He could only hope that no other being knew how to weave shadows, and yet he did, for that one person would be his successor to this accursed rune.

Though this group of zombies was defeated, more screams and explosions could be heard in the distance. More living dead were rising from their graves and morgues to gorge upon the living. This was going to be a long night.

"Come, Lilith," he called with a smile splitting his face, "let us bring peace to the living dead." Lilith sparked flames in her hands, preparing to incinerate anything in her path.

Her skills with the arcane were very strong, the strongest he had seen in well over five hundred years. The girl was a complete mystery. An orphan residing in Massachusetts during the nineteenth century, she was going to be strung up during the Salem Witch Trials for accidentally setting fire to a church when a priest tried to molest her. Goth was no expert on magic, but he suspected that her connection to the Æther must've extended her lifespan somehow.

A conflagration engulfed a group of zombies as they stumbled around in a daze, the acrid smell of burning flesh in the air. Her powers were much stronger now. She'd only been able to conjure up half of that before with strain, but now she did it without a bead of sweat forming on her body. With this much mana free-flowing around them, it made Goth wonder what else could happen. He could only hope this spike in the ley lines was merely temporary: the world was not ready for magic to make its triumphant return just yet. Still, the increased amount of the stuff would let them move easily within the city to destroy any undead they could find.

The air grew cold fast and a light snow started to fall. It was the first snow of the season, and it could very well be the last this world ever knew at this rate. Lilith made a quick gesture and was garbed in fuzzy red winter clothes with gold trim. She never did like the snow, though he'd seen her walk around stark naked in colder temperatures than this. Zombies along with skeletons ambled toward the two of them, thankfully now ignoring the masses of people fleeing for their lives. A smirk crept upon Goth's face as he swiped his scythe to destroy a few more of the abominations.

The rest of the night continued in this fashion, though the snow only seemed to get worse and worse, the ley lines still raging with power. There was nothing Goth could do about undead in other parts of the world - if there were more of them. All he could do now was creep back in the shadows to rest his body. Being immortal didn't protect him from exhaustion.

EDIT: Fixed it up with Star's assistance along with a few minor alterations of my own.

Last edited by Argent Fang on Sat Sep 18, 2010 9:52 pm; edited 2 times in total

EDIT: Check your PM box for the download link to see my edits in your prologue.

Aside from that, I've got some notes:

NUMBERS: You have to decide whether to spell out numbers or use the actual numbers in your prologue. In the span of a few paragraphs, you have "500 years"; in another, you spell out "eight hundred years". Once you choose, I'd recommend that you (&/or Dinny) go through your story & change all the numbers to reflect your choice. (Dates are exempt from this rule. Remember this: You only add the "nd" or "st" after a number when you're not referencing a year. In the case of December 21st, 2012, it'd actually read "December 21, 2012." If you decide to get a bit more high-brow & type the entire date out by hand, THEN it'd read "twenty-first".)

TENSES: Watch your usage of past & present tense. Change it when you need to (i.e., thoughts), but keep it all consistent. An example of this:

Argent Fang wrote:He could more than handle himself, but Lilith is a bit of a liability. He couldn't put her at risk like that, so he grabbed her arm and shifted back into the Material Plane.

Up until this point, you were using "was".

I noticed that you didn't want anyone to embellish your text too much, so I'll put this here:

Spoiler:

Argent Fang wrote:The ichor coming from the wounds of the creatures was absolutely putrid, but acceptable in the face of sending the creatures back to where they belonged.

"...acceptable in the face of the alternative, which was out of the question."

Argent Fang wrote:Her connection to the Æther must've extended her lifespan somehow, though Goth was no expert on magic.

"Though Goth was no expert on magic, he figured her connection to the Æther must've extended her lifespan somehow."

EDIT: Check your PM box for the download link to see my edits in your prologue.

Aside from that, I've got some notes:

NUMBERS: You have to decide whether to spell out numbers or use the actual numbers in your prologue. In the span of a few paragraphs, you have "500 years"; in another, you spell out "eight hundred years". Once you choose, I'd recommend that you (&/or Dinny) go through your story & change all the numbers to reflect your choice. (Dates are exempt from this rule. Remember this: You only add the "nd" or "st" after a number when you're not referencing a year. In the case of December 21st, 2012, it'd actually read "December 21, 2012." If you decide to get a bit more high-brow & type the entire date out by hand, THEN it'd read "twenty-first".)

TENSES: Watch your usage of past & present tense. Change it when you need to (i.e., thoughts), but keep it all consistent. An example of this:

Argent Fang wrote:He could more than handle himself, but Lilith is a bit of a liability. He couldn't put her at risk like that, so he grabbed her arm and shifted back into the Material Plane.

Up until this point, you were using "was".

I noticed that you didn't want anyone to embellish your text too much, so I'll put this here:

Spoiler:

Argent Fang wrote:The ichor coming from the wounds of the creatures was absolutely putrid, but acceptable in the face of sending the creatures back to where they belonged.

"...acceptable in the face of the alternative, which was out of the question."

Argent Fang wrote:Her connection to the Æther must've extended her lifespan somehow, though Goth was no expert on magic.

"Though Goth was no expert on magic, he figured her connection to the Æther must've extended her lifespan somehow."

Hope all this helps!

Great advice as always. I did notice the tense mix-up with that one particular line a few times but for whatever reason, I never bothered to fix it. Good catch on the 500 years thing; it was my intention to spell out the numbers like I was doing with the rest of the book, but that one seemed to slip through the cracks. As for the 21st thing, I actually originally wrote it December 21, but for whatever reason, the WP program I was using at the time suggested that I put that st next to the date, so I did, thinking I was making the right decision. Good to know that I was right for once and not the program...

Argent Fang wrote:Great advice as always. I did notice the tense mix-up with that one particular line a few times but for whatever reason, I never bothered to fix it. Good catch on the 500 years thing; it was my intention to spell out the numbers like I was doing with the rest of the book, but that one seemed to slip through the cracks. As for the 21st thing, I actually originally wrote it December 21, but for whatever reason, the WP program I was using at the time suggested that I put that st next to the date, so I did, thinking I was making the right decision. Good to know that I was right for once and not the program...

You didn't say if you liked it or not, BTW!!!

LOLLL!!! Of course I liked it! I'm actually looking forward to reading a bit more, if you decide to post another chapter (or even another story!) up here.

Yeah, WP can only do so much. The rest is just common sense & good editing. Whenever I'm writing or fixing something in Word, I yell at it (usually) within my head, lol. Some of the things it wants me to do makes absolutely no sense.

Oh, & btw... I forgot to mention that I wasn't sure if this should've been 1 paragraph or 2. I made it all 1 paragraph in the doc though.

Argent Fang wrote:A conflagration engulfed a group of zombies as they stumbled around in a daze, the acrid smell of burning flesh in the air. Her powers were much stronger now. She'd only be able to conjure up half of that before with strain, now she did it without a bead of sweat forming on her body.With this much mana free-flowing around them, it made Goth wonder what else could happen. He could only hope this spike in the ley lines was merely temporary, the world was not ready for magic to make its triumphant return just yet. Still, the increased amount of the stuff would let them move from spot to spot in the city to destroy any undead they could find.

Here's Chapter 1 of Xenoearth with plenty of important (and not so important) characters introduced.

Chapter 1Beginning’s End

When he had gotten the call from Sebastian on Thursday saying that the group had decided to get together to game on Friday-the explanation being that most of the regulars had holiday parties to attend to this weekend-he was tempted to refuse him. But the hectic nature of his mindless job and the long and tiring fights he'd been having with his girlfriend, the mother of his son, he decided to accept the offer.

He arrived at Shami's apartment complex, a low-income area where the vast majority of people were on their way to the great beyond, made all the more ridiculous by the fact that there was a somber cemetery across the street from said apartment complex. He pulled his gray Ford Ranger truck into his standard parking spot near the communal green dumpster and was greeted by Tom and Van as they were getting out of his car.

Tom was a fairly short man, standing about five foot seven with buzz cut light brown hair and blue eyes that always looked like they were vacant. He wore his lucky gray hoodie that had clearly seen better days along with urban camo cargo shorts and sneakers.

Van on the other hand was a good half-foot taller than Tom. He was stocky, with plenty of muscle underneath with poufy brown hair and hazel eyes. His facial hair was a simple reddish-brown goatee that he kept well maintained. He wore a black button up short sleeve shirt over a white t-shirt, along with blue jeans and sneakers.

"I didn't think you would show up, Malcolm" Tom commented.

"Yeah, well, things are kind of shitty at home right now and I need something to take my mind off things," he answered.

"I know all too well what you mean there," Van added.

"I don't see Brian's car, but I see Drake's and Sebastian's," Tom said with amazement. "Sebastian's usually always about a half an hour late."

"Maybe he's finally learned to not be such an ass about not showing up on time," Van replied.

"And to top it all off," Malcolm added, "he actually called me to tell me this. He never does that."

As they walked toward the clubhouse-a large building that was a public hub for the residents-Malcolm caught the sight of Mel's car out of the corner of his eye. She hadn't shown up to a gaming session since the days of Glenn being the main Dungeon Master. Today was just a constant day of surprises.

Van knocked on the door that was held fast by a numeric keypad locking mechanism and Shami shuffled over carefully, maintaining her balance with her red metal cane. Shami was a short and slightly rotund middle-aged woman with long dark brown hair tied into a ponytail and dark eyes that shined with wisdom. She might've been pretty about twenty years ago, but time has taken its toll on her looks. She wore a white patterned tank top with blue jeans and sandals.

"Why hello there boys," she said happily, "I was wondering when the three of you were going to show up."

Malcolm's thin, gaunt face split with a warm smile, "It's good to see you too. It was all I could do to get away from my bitch of a girlfriend."

"Still having relationship problems are we?" asked a strong yet light female voice as Mel's form came into view. She was an average sized woman with a pretty face and plump physique. She had blue-green eyes, a patterned t-shirt that strained against her bosom, green cargo pants, and sandals. Her normally blonde hair that she dyed infrequently was green with orange streaks today.

"Not that it's any of your concern," he replied bitterly.

She smiled mirthfully, "I'm not that surprised really, you never were the most stable person when it came to women."

"Can you two talk about this crap later?" Van irritably asked, rubbing his temple.

"I'm with him," Tom said, "that's the last thing this group needs tonight."

"I can do that," Malcolm said curtly, staring at Mel, "Can you?"

She kept smiling at him and just shrugged and walked back to her spot at the conjoined tables. Shami walked slowly to her spot and the three of them followed after her, then seeing the rest of the players.

Trogg was a simple-minded, ugly man with unkempt brown hair, blue eyes that were incredibly dull, and a disheveled beard. He was an incredibly obese person, with thighs that were as big around as his waist, if not bigger. His clothing was about the only thing that wasn't unkempt. He wore a tight-fitting red plaid over shirt with a white t-shirt underneath, khaki pants that strained with his girth, and sneakers.

Drake was a little taller than Tom, with short brown hair, blue eyes and a full on Vandyke beard of brown. He looked very much like a rat with his somewhat long nose and slightly curled lip. He wore a dragonprint black t-shirt, a NASCAR baseball cap, blue jeans and sneakers.

Sebastian was the same height as Drake and had a scruffy beard that hadn't seen a razor for days. He had dark brown hair and blue eyes and his face always looked mirthful. He wore one of his superhero t-shirts tonight with some khaki cargo pants and sneakers.Vare had cleaned up a lot since Malcolm had seen him last. His black hair that used to be shaggy as all hell was in a military cut, and his brown eyes were full of mischief. At least that part hadn't changed. He wore a black t-shirt, blue jeans and sneakers.

Brian was nowhere to be seen and Allan, James and Jomaul had other things to attend to that night. Still more than enough players for tonight's game, Malcolm thought.

"Alright, everyone," said Sebastian, rummaging through his bag for their character sheets and his DM screen and notes. "Let's get started, shall we?"

"As soon as we decide when we're going to order Chinese food tonight," Drake interjected.

"If you're that hungry," Vare replied, "there are more than enough snacks at the table."

"Let's order when we get to the entrance to the dungeon," Sebastian suggested.

"Any objections to that?" Malcolm asked, looking at everyone. No one protested against it so they agreed to that. Everyone then settled into their seats. The dice were out, the sheets lay in front of their respective players and the room grew quiet.

Sebastian began slowly. "Okay, when last we left ourselves, you guys were inside the Shrouded Wood, the fog is thick and moist, and you can only see about five feet in front of you. You've just broken camp and are ready to move again. I want everyone to roll Listen checks."

Malcolm sighed at the thought of that. He was playing a spear and shield-wielding fighter modeled after a Spartan Warrior so listening for danger wasn't one of his strong suits. Still, he picked up his twenty-sided die and rolled it, expecting to fail. Much to his surprise, it landed on a twenty! Van rolled high as was expected, as did Vare. Van rolling high was no surprise to him—he seemed to have the devil's luck when it came to rolling dice—but Vare had had a bad streak for the past few sessions, only a couple of times rolling above a ten. The rest of the players rolled high enough to succeed.

"OK, everyone hears the rustling in the bushes to the west of your campsite," Sebastian said hopefully. "Out of the bushes comes a group of wights and ghouls, looking hungry for the flesh of the living! Everyone make initiative rolls!"

"Clearly this is the work of that foul necromancer that calls this forest his home," stated Tom role-playing as Gregithor the Cleric.

"Thank you for stating the obvious," Van replied sarcastically playing the sly rogue Zarak. Everyone rolled initiative after the witty banter. Van went first, followed by Shamilla, then Trogg, Vare, and Drake.

Malcolm and Tom brought up the rear once again. "Figures," Malcolm muttered curtly, tossing his die back into his pile and grabbing a different one.

He peered outside briefly and noticed that a light snow was starting to fall. How appropriate, he thought, the first day of winter bringing the first day of snow. That wasn't all it brought either. A mob of people were slowly ambling across the street toward them. Across the street was a cemetery… There was no way it could be possible, he thought to himself as he sat up to look outside."What do you see, Malcolm?" asked Vare.

Getting a closer look, his heart sank. Zombies were coming toward the apartments looking for fresh meat. How could this be? This was the sort of nonsense garbage that happened in cheesy B-movies or the latest Hollywood piece of crap. Malcolm hoped against hope that perhaps it was just his imagination.

"Holy c-c-c-rap," Trogg stuttered, "what's wrong with those people?"

So much for imagination.

Everyone was looking outside at this point, and more than one of them shrieked, "Is this for real?!"

Should they try and warn the other tenants, or hole up in here and call the cops and hope they get here in time to save their hides? None of them had weapons that he knew of, save for his sorry excuse for a pocket knife. Shamilla had her thin metal baton but he doubted that it would do any sort of damage against a mindless corpse…then Vare produced a Beretta pistol from his backpack.

"When did you start carrying around a gun, Vare?" asked Malcolm.

"Around the time that I joined up with the military, duh," he replied.

"I hope you have enough rounds to deal with about a hundred of those things…" said Sebastian nervously.

Some of them started battering at the front door as they spilled forth like a massive wave. Many started to head toward easier prey in the surrounding apartments. There were a lot of elderly people that lived around here, so chances are they were screwed. He'd feel remorse for them later; he had to focus on staying allive. All he could do was unfold his pocket knife and wait for the inevitable undead rush.

"Damn it," Shami cursed, "I don't have any reception; how about any of you?"

"No luck here," Mel replied somberly.

"Same here," Sebastian sadly added.

"The fucking pigs better be out and about," said Tom grimly, "or we're zombie chow!" Van laughed, "I'm not about to let a few walking corpses mess up my night," he said while cracking his knuckles.

He wasn't really thinking about fighting those things with his bare hands was he? More than likely he probably was, but at least Malcolm wasn't the only one with his heart in his throat with fear. Looking at everyone in the room, Van was the only one that seemed to be looking forward to this. Apparently, living with pain all of your life dulled your sense of fear.

Malcolm had always thought that if he ran into stuff like this that he'd be able to handle himself. Now he wasn't so sure. Barring some sort of divine intervention, like maybe the cops showing up armed to the teeth, they were all probably going to die here tonight. He really wished he had his claymore here right about now-anything would be better than the pocket knife-as he rubbed his thumb against the rough material of the knife handle. There were more bangs and thumps from outside; straining the potential openings. He thought he heard some piercing shrieks coming from the apartments over the groaning of the zombies, but he hoped it was only his imagination.

He could get a good look at them now as they climbed up into those patio spots on either side of the building. Those glass doors were fairly sturdy, but they wouldn't hold forever. The tables they used for gaming were braced against that window along with all the chairs; hopefully it would be enough. The fridge that was barring entry from the back patio was moving a little bit as they banged their hands against the glass door. The front door had a security lock and a good sized upright piano blocking that entryway. It was the same with the laundry room and all the washers and dryers they used to guard the tall windows.

If they were going to come from anywhere, he thought, it was going to be that back patio door. At least they'd only have to fight a few at a time. That was a grim thought. Then like a gunshot, the glass in the back shattered, and all that was between them and the monsters was a fridge. Malcolm steeled himself for the inevitable as Van and Trogg tried to apply their girth to the fridge to keep it in place. There was no time to be afraid now.

Suddenly, Van and Trogg got knocked back a few feet as the fridge that was keeping the zombies from coming into the building was tossed aside. Van answered the first one to shamble in with a smack from the fridge door that made a sickly thud upon impact. He tried to swing it again, but there were too many and he was forced to back away, but not before he sent his meaty fist into the face of the same one he struck a moment before. Vare opened up with his pistol to finish off the first of several zombies that were coming inside in an attempt to feast upon their flesh. Now under the lighting of the room, he could finally get a good look at them.

They had grayish-green skin that was mottled with spots of decay, filthy with lichen and dirt. Some still had full heads of hair, but most of them had only a few wispy strands of white or grey to hint at what color it might have been in life. Their finger and toenails were extremely long and looked incredibly sharp and filthy—getting raked by them would cause an infection—but the filth-ridden teeth that came to dull points now would be far worse. They wore the remnants of their burial clothing, now covered in dirt and ichor.

Thankfully, they had poor reflexes and were relatively easy to dodge when there were only a few, but it would only be a matter of time before there were too many to handle for them. Van was punching and kicking any that dared to get too close and Trogg was doing the same with a chair that was now broken from impacts with the zombies. Vare had unloaded his clip early on and was now pistol-whipping the creatures in the head while avoiding their claws and teeth. Fool should have brought another clip with him, Malcolm thought as one started to descend upon him. Instinctively, he slashed out at the throat of the zombie with his pocket knife while avoiding its filth-ridden claws. It felt like cutting into a piece of meat—well, if the meat was still moving around and sprayed ichor on you from the gash.

Surprisingly enough, it reeled back a few steps grabbing at its throat trying to stop the flow of black goo from the wound. Malcolm took the opportunity to shove the knife right into one of its eyes in an attempt to finish it off. The knife sunk in and the creature's legs gave out as it fell to the ground in a heap of flesh and bones. He waited a couple of moments to make sure it wouldn't get up, then when he was sure it was finished off, he yanked his knife out of its eye socket with a disgusting suction noise, bringing the eye with it.

He grimaced at the sight of the stabbed eye and shook it off as best as he could, trying not to gag, then took a quick look around the room. Shami was doing her best trying to fend one of the things off with her thin metal baton, which wasn't doing that well. Sebastian, Tom, and Mel had grabbed some broken chair legs, using them as clubs to keep them at bay. Van had taken a few minor cuts, and Trogg was holding his left arm trying to stop the flow of blood. This was going pretty bad.

Malcolm slashed the one that Shami was battling across the back so she could break away safely to tend to Trogg's wound. He ducked a swipe from its claws and then countered with another slash to its stomach. He stepped back a hair too late from the next swipe and took a minor wound to his right forearm, which caused him to slash its throat in anger. A scream of pain shot out from Vare's mouth as he took a solid gash across his right shoulder, causing him to fall to one knee. He would've gone to help, but a couple of swings from Tom's chair leg to the back of its head put it down.

Tom visibly panted from the fatigue from fighting; the same fatigue that he was sure was painted all over his face as well. "I dunno, Malcolm," he said, "I think we might be screwed."

Tom shrugged and shook his head. "I knew you were going to say something like that, but I didn't think I would die like this." He swung at another zombie that came in from his right, the sickly thud of wood against dead flesh and bone echoing in the room. Malcolm assisted with a knife slash to the small of its back, which dispatched it with ease.

After what felt like an eternity of fighting, everyone now had some sort of injury slowing them down. Then they felt the ground shake as something from outside lumbered toward them. Something big. They heard a long unearthly screech as the front of the building was now torn straight open as a zombie about ten feet tall with inhuman muscles came in. It looked like something out of a horror fantasy novel, but Malcolm had no time to think about it as it singled him out and came at him with a fist that was as big as Van's head.

His attempt to dodge the monstrous fist sent him flying into the laundry room door. The impact caused intense pain radiating through his core. It took all he had to stay conscious as he felt the massive creature stalk toward him to finish him off. Just as Malcolm was about to embrace death, however, a loud blast echoed from outside, blowing a hole into the head of the zombie. It was at this point that he became aware of the police sirens outside. At that same moment, a black mist rose from the defeated zombies, and one by one, everyone fell to the floor unconscious…

EDIT: A long time coming, but I finally got around to making those changes that you suggested Starfire.

EDIT #2: I decided to change the pacing of this chapter a bit and introduce the characters a little more slowly, but the overall content is pretty much the same.

Last edited by Argent Fang on Tue Oct 26, 2010 8:39 am; edited 2 times in total

Argent, I haven't had a chance to sink my teeth into the chapter you just posted since I've been pretty busy here. However, I did skim through the first couple paragraphs, & I'm a bit confused with this one:

Argent Fang wrote:This week, the gang had decided to get together to game on Friday, though Malcolm had no idea why. The sessions at Shamilla’s place had been rather consistent for the past four years. They’d come together, talk about their weeks; play a couple of role-playing games over Chinese takeout then go home in the wee hours of the morning. Most of the regulars were all here.

Why is it such an odd thing for them to gather on a Friday?

I'll edit it when I can (hopefully soon!).

*****

EDIT 9/27: I'm working through it now. Here's another thought I've got:

Instead of devoting a paragraph for each person who's there, why don't you insert the description when the character speaks? Or when a character addresses someone else? It'd flow more easily, & people aren't liable to skim through the descriptions.

Also, instead of keeping the "ordered Shami", "said Malcolm", etc. consistent, it's okay to switch it up to avoid being repetitive.

Here's something a friend of mine wrote for her English class about 7 years ago. She aced the assignment.

UNTITLEDBy Larissa

I don't understand what the big deal is. Happiness is way overrated in my opinion. Don't get me wrong, I was happy once. My life was the picture of happiness. I had loving parents, an annoying but sweet younger brother and great friends. I was a good student and reasonably popular in school. But I soon learned that as great as things were, that's as bad as they could become... Let me tell you a story...

I lived a pretty routine life. I would wake up at 5:45 each morning and take a quick shower. That was immediately followed by my morning rituals of picking an outfit, makeup and hair styling. A quick word with my mother who sat at the breakfast table eating her oatmeal with brown sugar at 6:30 every morning. A wave to my dad as I run out the door to get to school. That was also as mundane as it was to be expected. A short drive in my blue Honda Civic and a mad dash into the building just before the bell rang for first period. I would hang with my friends and learn, after all that's what you're supposed to do in school, right? After school I would work on the sets for school plays, because that's what I do. I build and design sets. It's what I love to do and I'm good at it.

On October 17, I headed out to add to the sets for Macbeth at 6:34. My parents and I were fighting. They didn't like me going out every night to work on this set. They felt it was a waste of so much effort. I was infuriated that they called what I love to do a waste. I left, slamming the door, despite their wishes.

I was working with the other techies, having a good time when my phone rang. Had I known what I was about to hear, I would have never answered the phone.

"Hello?" I said as I answered the call. At first no one answered. "Hello? Who is this?" It was then that I heard a whimpering voice.

"Annie..."

"Jon?" It sounded like my brother's voice but it was so weak and raspy. "Is that you?"

"I'm so scared, Annie," he cried. I began to panic. Though Jon was only 10, he was never scared of anything. I could hear him cough. It didn't sound right. Instead of the dry rasp it was wet and gurgling.

"Jon, what's wrong? Tell me what happened." I was keeping my voice as calm as I could though the panic was rising within me. By this time my friends had ended their conversation and were paying attention to me, worried by my tone.

All he said was, "I'm so cold..." I heard a thud on the other end as the phone fell to the ground.

"Jon? JON?!?" I screamed. No answer. "I gotta go," I said shortly. I didn't even put on my coat as I ran out the door to my car. On the way I dialed 911 and told them to send an ambulance to my house. I sped home, running red lights and cutting off other cars. I didn't care. What little Jon had said was enough to send me into a panic. I tore into the driveway and stumbled out. I didn't even turn off the car. I looked to my house, where I had lived for the past 17 years of my life. The door was ajar and all the lights were off. I hurried inside, praying that I wasn't too late.

It was dark. I tripped on an overturned coffee table while searching for my family.

"Mom?" I called. No answer. "Dad?" My tone rising. Nothing. Everything was in disarray. Chairs broken, tables overturn, papers and shards of glass blanketed the carpet. A dark stain caught my eye. Small spatters formed a trail out of the room and down the hall. I refused to believe that the stains were what I thought they were, they just couldn't be. I followed them down the hall to the kitchen. My breath caught in my throat as my hand flew to my mouth.

"It can't be..." my voice barely more than a whisper. I hurried to Jon. He lay face down on the ceramic floor. The phone lay inches from his hand in a dark ever spreading pool. A shuddering breath escaped me as I knelt down besde him. I slowly reached down and gently turned him over. His delicate face was unmarked and innocent. His eyes were closed, as if he were only asleep. With a trembling hand I brushed away a rogue lock of blonde hair. His shirt was crimson with blood as it blossomed from his chest. I hugged his cold body to mine as silent tears burned down my cheeks.

"Annie?" a soft voice called. Surprised, I looked down to see Jon's emerald eyes peering up at me. "I'm so cold." I held him closer as I cooed in his ear.

"It's ok," I whispered. "I'm here, you're going to be ok." I took off my pullover shirt and wrapped it around his chest trying to stop the bleeding.

"These two men came in the house-" He coughed and blood oozed from his lips.

"Shh, don't speak," I begged. "It's ok, you're ok." I was telling him this for his sake as much as for mine. Mom and Dad had to be dead. Otherwise they would have been here helping him. The thought brought fresh tears to my eyes. The thought was unbearable. Despite what I said he continued to tell me what happened.

"They had guns, and forced me 'n Mommy 'n Daddy into the living room. Daddy reached and took his shotgun off the wall and went into the other room." A fresh trickle of blood ran from his mouth but he continued. "Mommy was crying when we heard a gunshot. She screamed as I ran into the room. I wanted to know what happened." He paused as he took a deep breath. The effort was obviously killing him as he winced in pain. "I saw Daddy on the floor with the men standing over him. I yelled at them and ran to Daddy. I heard a scream and another gunshot." A tremor ran through his body as the blood soaked my shirt and drenched the floor. "Mommy was dead. Then I heard another shot. I didn't even feel it after a while," he mused. "I heard the men leave some time after. Then I called you..."

His breathing was coming in short gasps as blood filled his lungs. "Annie," he whispered.

"What is it, sweetie?"

"I'm sorry." His eyelids drooped as his body grew ever colder.

"No, honey, no," I cried as I tightened my embrace around him. "It's my fault. I should have stayed home." In the distance I could hear the blaring of sirens as they sped to our house. Thank God!

"It's going to be ok, baby," I said. "Help is coming; hold on."

A weak smile graced his face. And I couldn't help but smile back. Things were going to be ok. Help was on the way and Jon was going to be just fine. At least that was what I was telling myself.

As the sirens grew louder Jon slowly raised a trembling and bloody hand. I reached out to hold it in mine.

"I love you, big sister," he breathed. I leaned down and kissed his forehead.

"I love you too," I said. "And I always will."

"Don't forget me..." His skin grew colder and paler with every word he spoke. He knew he wasn't going to make it, even though I refused to believe that he wouldn't be there in the morning.

"I could never forget you, even if I tried." Tears splashed down my face and emotions overcame me. "Don't talk like that. Help is coming, just hold on." I begged him not to give up. Despite all my praying I couldn't stop the inevitable.

"Promise me..." As the words left his mouth, his life left his body. His now lifeless hand slipped from mine to land in his lap. All I could do was cry. I don't know how long I sat there, his dead body in my arms.

"Hello!" a voice called. The paramedics, I thought.

The emergency workers and police stormed the house, searching every room for signs of people. They first found the bodies of a man and a woman in the family room, clearly dead for some time. They hurried to the back of the house, into the kitchen. They expected to find another body, but what they did find was heartwrenching. A girl, no older than 17-18 years old, kneeling on the floor surrounded by a scarlet puddle. Her entire body was stained red with the blood of the boy she held in her arms.

"Ma'am?" they called as they approached. She looked up. Her eyes were bright in her colorless face and trails of tears ran down her face. Her eyes were blank, not really seeing. It was then that they realized what must have happened. This girl was the sole survivor of a violent and deadly robbery.

My life went downhill from there. Actually, it was stolen from me that night. I never got back to normal after that. How could I? I watched my 10 year old brother die in my arms. It kills me to think that there was something I could have done. If I was there, if I would have listened to my parents and not be selfish for once, they might still be here, with me. The worst part was that they didn't know. They didn't know just how much I loved them. I realize now just how important they were to me and how much I loved them. I never told my parents that. Now, I wish I had, everyday.

You might be wondering why I'm telling you this. The reason is simple: Never take things for granted. Never leave things unsettled. You might fight with someone over something small or insignificant, and you go to bed angry thinking, 'we'll make up in the morning.' Then you wake up and go about your life saying to yourself, 'later I'll tell them how much they matter to me.' You hear about a robbery or a shootout and think 'those poor people'. Then you get the call. Not words of hate or anger are exchanged. Only those of love and apologies made too late. You never get the chance to tell them ever again.

To put it simply, never leave things to the last minute. You never know when something is over. Because sometimes, just sometimes...

I wrote this little thing while I was a member on Writing.com back in 2006.

LEARNING HOW TO WRITEBy me

"Okay, class, today we're going to learn how to write!" my teacher said one day.

We were all busy playing with blocks when she said it and all eight of us sat in stunned silence. According to my teacher, I was supposed to write with it, and I looked at her as though she'd lost her mind. Me? WRITE? Out of the question, I thought. Is this some newfangled concept that I'm supposed to learn?

The teacher picked up a thin object that was yellow and very thin in shape. One end had a sharp pointy tip and the other had a pink round thing on top. We looked at each other and thought the teacher had finally snapped.

"This is called a pencil," she announced. "Repeat after me. Pen-CIL."

"Pen-CIL," our obedient childlike voices replied.

"Very good!" She smiled in satisfaction at our perfect pronunciation and proceeded to select another tool that looked much like the pencil. This time it was blue in color and, instead of a sharp pointy tip, it had a round shiny thing at the end. There was no pink stuff at the top, but rather something blue, and it matched the item itself. "And this is a pen!" she exclaimed.

We began to wonder if she'd just discovered this 'pen'. There were other ones similar to it on her desk, and they had been there since the start of the school year. Not knowing how to respond, we sat quietly.

Looking around the room and seeing our blank, confused faces, she tried another tack. "We'll be using the pen later on. I'm going to pass out a freshly sharpened pencil to each one of you. This'll be your special pencil till you're done, okay?" She looked around at us and waited for a glimmer of understanding to reach our faces. Grabbing a long flat box that rattled as she moved it, she shook out a set of identical pencils.

"How will I know which one's mine?" my classmate called out.

"Ah, that's a good question!" She rewarded him with a special smile. "Once you pick out your pencil, I'm going to mark it with your name so no one can take it from you." After she was done speaking, we anxiously awaited our turn to choose our glorious pencil that would be ours for all eternity (or so we thought). Finally my chance came. There were five brand new pencils in that box, and all were peeking out with their pink heads. I hemmed and hawed and, after a long agonizing moment, I chose my pencil. I clutched it to my chest for fear of it being stolen. I needn't have worried. We were all behaving the same way, glancing at each other suspiciously as the teacher selected a black marker from her desk and began writing our names on the precious yellow thing called a pencil.

We learned the alphabet that day, and after much erasing and muttering, each of us achieved the milestone of writing our names by ourselves. The letters were squiggly and crooked, but we cherished the paper our names were on and smoothed out the wrinkles every chance we got.

The next day brought more of the same. But this time I didn't want to. I wanted to color. I could see the box of crayons beckon to me, calling out, "Pick me! Color with me!" Unable to resist any longer, I seized the box while the teacher chatted outside with another, opened it and selected a purple crayon and proceeded to color my entire paper. Satisfied with my work, I smiled a little smug smile and showed it to her the minute she stepped back into the room. She wasn't happy. She marched me back to my seat, placed the pencil forcibly into my right hand and showed me (again) how to make all the letters of the alphabet.

I lay alone in my bed tryna forget about youin the morning you smeared your make upface look worse than the back of a truckwas I lonely that night or having bad luckthey know how I roll anit no girl my worldcall me dry ice, you can't hold me too longthis the end young L don't write no song

Been a while, but I figured I'd add something here. Chapter 2 of Xenoearth for your reading pleasure. (or displeasure if you don't like this kind of stuff)

Chapter 2Family Ties

The past couple of years had been rough for the Wakeman family. Money was tight, the kitchen floors needed to be redone, and the recent disappearance of her younger brother had Emilia more than a little distraught. Authorities said that he was lost at sea, and presumed dead even though all they managed to find of him was a few torn pieces of clothing with his DNA on it. She didn't want to believe he was dead; deep down, she knew he was still alive somewhere.

That being said however, the household was still in high spirits. Drew and Moses were doing excellent in school as always, and Isaac had been experimenting with new business ventures ever since the construction job he had had for the past few years abruptly ended. None of them had proved lucrative yet, and she wanted to tell him to cease his foolishness and look for a real job, but it was the holiday season, and a Friday to boot. He'd get a talking to after the holidays, she'd see to that, she noted in her mind.

Moses kept peering outside expecting snow, his brown eyes wide with excitement. His brown hair was beginning to get a bit long though, she'd have to cut it before too much longer. Drew just rolled her eyes at her brother's enthusiasm and continued to doodle in here sketchbook. Her semi-long light brown hair framed a round face with deep sea green eyes. Isaac was doing his best to remain conscious as they watched one of the many Christmas specials that were on tonight. His eyes were practically ebony and his dark brown hair was almost completely covered by a red ball cap.

She couldn't focus on the movie as her thoughts turned to Glenn. He never was one to listen to her advice half the time. She did all she could to keep him down here in South Carolina, but he insisted on going back to Maine to visit his friends for a couple of weeks. Those couple of weeks turned into a couple of years wherever he ended up. Amazingly enough, Jason and Jamie had finally agreed to come and visit them this holiday along with her mother. She had hoped it wouldn't take the death of another family member to strengthen the family ties between her and Jason, who constantly fought in their childhood, but she had always thought it would be because of Mom that they came together, not Glenn. She rubbed at her eye a bit and only then realized that she had been crying again.

Isaac looked over at her with worry painted all over his face. "Thinking about Glenn again?" he asked. She half-expected him to make some corny, uncouth joke, but he was completely serious this time.

She just meekly nodded and started to cry some more.

"I know," Drew said joining in on the conversation, "I miss him too."

"Man!" Moses said looking out the window, "when is it going to snow?!"

Drew fumed a bit at her brother. "Would you stop gawking outside for a minute," she shouted, "Momma's crying!"

Moses looked a bit taken aback from his lack of attention. She wanted to believe that the boy possessed heart and compassion, but as he got older and grew colder toward her, hope seemed to fade away…

"I'm sorry Mom," he said, half looking out the window while he talked. "I miss Uncle Glenn too. But you said it yourself that he wasn't dead. They never found a body after all."

Was he actually trying to cheer her up?

Isaac replied, "Some sea creature could have dragged him off and eaten him for all we know, so don't get your hopes up."

Drew muttered, "I know he's alive somewhere, I just know it." She patted her loyal daughter on the head and thanked her for her kind words. Everyone went silent again and back to what they were doing as if the conversation never happened.

She went back to watching the Christmas special again. Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer was playing. An old classic in that Claymation that looked really cheesy by these day's standards, but just as Rudolph was about to leave the Island of Misfit Toys, the local news interrupted the broadcast with a special bulletin.

"Channel 7 has breaking news from around the globe. In the parts of the world where it is now the Winter Solstice, there have been reports of strange phenomena and the living dead walking the streets and countryside killing and maiming anyone that gets in their way. Authorities say they hunt human flesh and can track humans down with alarming precision. So for the safety of your families tonight, stay indoors and lock all the doors and bar all the windows if you can!"

The report continued with a quick blip about the weather calling for a foot of snow. A foot! Such snowfall down here was unheard of.

"This just in: Apparently, the entire country of Russia has been frozen over. No camera crews are able to get in for a closer look, but around the globe, without warning, all communication with Russia had been cut off. We now turn to a CBS correspondent for further details."

What did they mean Russia had been frozen over?! What was next, Jesus coming back from the dead?! No, this was just a big joke because of the fact that it was the Winter Solstice of 2012; it had to be.

"Whoa!" shouted Moses as his eyes were now fixed upon the TV. "What sort of weather pattern would cause that? It'd take a massive cold front with monsoon level precipitation for something like that!"

"Could be," she replied distantly, "but more than likely, this is just a load of bullshit; probably just some ridiculous stories to get people in an uproar."

Isaac nodded his head, muttering a "Yeah," clearly thinking about all of this too from the grim look on his face.

Their worries were then confirmed when they showed a scene from somewhere in Asia, where an amateur cameraman caught footage of people fleeing and getting mauled and eaten by walking corpses. The footage lasted for about five minutes until one of the things noticed the cameraman, then the camera fell to the floor with a little bit of gore splattered over the lens. It was like something out of a Hollywood horror film.

"I'm scared, Momma," said Drew as she huddled in closer to her.

"This isn't appropriate for the two of you. Isaac, let's get them up to bed."

"Aww, c'mon!" protested Moses, "Drew might be too young for this, but I'm fourteen now! I think I can handle seeing something like this!"

Emilia retorted angrily, "Bed, now!"

Drew went upstairs without saying a word, but she was visibly shaken. She always was a sensitive girl, and it seemed that she would always be this way. Time had a way of changing anything, and not always for the better. The poor girl would probably have nightmares for weeks, she thought as they went upstairs. Moses went upstairs after a fashion, but he would fight at the drop of a hat with her about anything.

Once they were tucked into bed, they came downstairs and un-paused the TV, which just had more footage from other parts of the world depicting the same thing more or less. One scene from New York City had a very strange pair of people, a man clad in black with white hair and a very dangerous looking scythe, and a woman barely wearing anything at all making strange gestures with her hands fighting off zombies. This footage was actually live!

Right about the same time, the local news cut in from the national news shouting that the zombies were here in the Upstate! The whole newsroom was in a panic, as were the neighbors in the surrounding area as she heard screams and running around outside. She peered outside and much to her horror, there was a wall of walking corpses shambling their way toward their little community! She pinched herself just to make sure it wasn't a dream. When she opened her eyes and looked outside, they were still there. Guess it wasn't a dream after all.

They started to push things in front of windows and doors as quickly as possible, locking them in the process. Thankfully the kids were upstairs out of harm's way, but they'd have nowhere to run if they managed to break in. She dialed 911 on her cell, or at least she tried to do it. There was no signal at all! She tried using the land line to dial for help, but there was no dial tone. What the hell was going on, she thought. Isaac had retrieved the metal bat he kept in his room, prepared for the worst it seemed.

Emilia had her revolver that used to belong to her parents, but only had a few rounds for it, thinking that she'd never really have to use it to any extent. She doubted the pepper spray would do much good either. Some of her kitchen knives would cut into their flesh, but that would require her to get a bit closer than she was comfortable doing. But considering the options, she retrieved a few of them and went into the living room where they were going to make their stand if it came to it.Gunshots rang out in the air as people were fighting them off outside while people started to pile into their vehicles and make a run for it. Who were they kidding? There was no place to run from them, they were everywhere no doubt. All they could hope to do was to hold out until help arrived, hoping against hope that they'd survive the night. Her thoughts turned to her mother, older brother and sister in law who were supposed to be coming here tomorrow morning. Would they be alright? And what of her friends, the ones back in Maine and the current ones she had made here? There was so much death outside that she couldn't help but wonder if the end of days really had come, that those fundamental Christians might have actually been right all along.

The gunshots became less frequent as the screams of death became more frequent; people being torn to pieces by the ravenous horde of zombies. Emilia had never seen a person being eaten before until now, and there were still more of them making their way slowly to the other houses around here. The front door to the living room started to shake as something or someone banged violently on it. She dared a peek around the side to see a group of the things trying to make their way inside. She felt her heart jump into her throat as she tightened her grip on the handle of her gun. No amount of precognition could have prepared her for something like this. All she could think about was the safety of her children now. Without them, life wouldn't have been worth living.

Looks like Dinny added a line of code that spaces whenever there's a new tab when adding copypasta text. That was a nice touch there and definitely something DeviantArt could learn to implement.

Okay, I literally just typed this tonight (or this morning; however you want to look at it) in about 45 minutes. I haven't gone through it to clean it up. I know that I need to split this into at least 4-ish paragraphs & some of the punctuation I used is a bit improper, but it does the job for now.

EDIT 10/30: Polished it up. The neater version is now in the spoilers.

This is one of the more..."personal" writings. This is how I usually write.

As usual, I look forward to comments, suggestions, & thoughts.

Spoiler:

Two worlds touch momentarily only to be repelled once more. Such is the case with divorce. My parents' marriage has been rocky at times. They've considered divorcing more than once, and there were times when they actually separated. Every couple goes through this, I suppose…especially when you introduce a new stressor into the union, like a newborn, a house and all its financial burdens it carries, or when you feel like all you do is give and give and give and the other sucks all your effort and leaves you exhausted.

And then there are times when you both try to save the marriage, but your olive branch is offered at the wrong time; when the other person is too weary, hurt, angry and betrayed to notice. And then you complain that "HE hasn't made the effort to win me back" or "SHE isn't listening to me." Those couples are like two ships in the night passing each other by. Each word spoken to each other rends each person's heart until they are too blinded, their vision too streaked with red, that they are unable to see past their own wounds. "Well, since HE hurt me, I'll hurt HIM" is the thought that plays on a loop on the invisible cassette player in their minds until that's all they desire. By the time the divorce is final, they are standing opposite each other, perhaps mere inches separating them, but the inches turn into a chasm so wide and so deep that it's impossible to bridge.

And both of them are reduced to two pillars of emotional ash, still smoking, like the steaming rubble that remains after a fire breaks out. Each person acts as their own firefighter: trying to release the emotions that have been twisted and melded into a little ball over months or years of suppressing the feelings that came with each wound. But by then, any chance of reconciling, of becoming friends once more "for the sake of the children" has gone. The pair is reduced to drowning their sorrows in whatever way they can, but at night, if they're alone, with no other preoccupations to occupy their minds in the netherworld that happens just before you finally fall asleep, they're flooded with regrets, wistfulness of the great love lost, and the loneliness that comes with losing the one warm body that's slept beside you all those years: that comforting profile you could draw with your eyes blindfolded; so familiar is that shape under the covers, that's when the loss overwhelms you.

Maybe you cry yourself to sleep; maybe you turn to drink to numb the pain; maybe you invite someone home with you just so you don't have to face another night alone in that big bed without the comfort and safety of that other warm body next to you, cradling you in your sleep. But each morning, you wake up from your sound sleep only to find the body you invited over has vanished. There's no note on the pillow, nothing on the counter…nothing to suggest that someone could've been there overnight except an indentation on the other side of the bed. And the pain returns, nearly doubling yourself over with the wallop it packs, and you consider calling out sick from work to spend the day alone. "What's the harm? The kids will be gone most of the day" you rationalize. You don't concern yourself with lost wages; a sick day will cover that.

The temptation's too strong, and you call, feigning sick. Your boss is only too concerned for you, and after some platitudes, some "Get well soons!", you hang up to face the blissful stillness of the house. Then the desire to stay awake dissipates, and you find yourself staring at the bed, seriously contemplating a few hours of sleep, and weighing the loss of a few hours to the chores that you need to do around the house, now that your spouse is no longer around to do them for you. As the thought occurs in your mind, the bed turns into this THING that you need to avoid at all costs. So you throw on your rattiest outfit, one that screams "housework day", stick your unbrushed hair into a semblance of a bun, and you turn into a cleaning, fixer-upper machine. Your head is filled with thoughts of "Can I get this stain out?" and "I need to patch that."

You become a whirling dervish, making the house spotless, and heading to Lowe's to get some compound, and some tools, and "Oh! I need that. HE took all his stuff when he left.", and some paint, since you were struck with an inspiration to paint the interior of the house in a different color in order to reduce the number of times it reminds you of HIM. And you end up spending more than you thought you would in that short trip.

A twinge of regret that's quickly brushed away. "It'll be a fresh start" you say to yourself. You pull back into the driveway, and there are your kids on the porch, staring inside the trunk of your car, which is now filled with assorted paint cans and the equipment you need to paint the walls with.

"Are you alright, Mom?" They stare at you worriedly, like you're about to crack. You catch their looks out of the corner of your eye, but you ignore it.

"Come help me with this," you command in that no-nonsense tone every kid knows so well. Another glance. They move to help you. Soon enough, the stuff you purchased is in the house, but instead of the expectant, excited feeling you thought would overwhelm you once you got it home, all you can think of is how tired you are, and how you just want to crawl back into bed and somehow numb yourself again.

The days pass, each new one much like the one before. Then one day you wake up and you realize that the projects you wanted to do have been collecting dust in the catch-all basement, and you have absolutely zero interest in changing the way the house looks…because you realize you LIKE the way the house looks.

A light dawns. Your eyes widen. You realize that it's been four months and you haven't thought of HIM in all that time. You laugh delightedly. It borders on pure euphoria, and you realize that you sound just slightly off-kilter so you clamp your mouth to keep the sound from escaping, but you feel like leaping for joy. HE no longer hangs over your head like a bomb about to go off. Just like that, you are FREE.

@ StarFireSong: That was really, really nice. I love it when people can pull off the emotive prose style without getting too trite. Was it inspired by anything particular in your life, personally (since you mentioned there was something personal about it)?

This is something I wrote for my English class. It's actually still a WIP, so if you have any suggestions, feel free to provide them.

Spoiler:

Rattus Norvegicus

1. Number one is running that damn maze again. From cage, to box, from box to cage – formaldehyde again – and back to the maze. He’s scampering amongst the walls zealously, the wandering Minotaur of this expansive labyrinth, and he dreams of freedom. The wide faces looming down from above murmur incomprehensibly amongst themselves as the Minotaur marches on, on an expedition to unlock the secrets of the mind for the one-hundred and sixty-fourth time.

Skinner would be proud.

2. Scapegoat. Poor number two suffers so many needles he ought to be a pin cushion. He’s the beast of burden, the pack mule of disease, carrying the whole weight of the world on his tiny back. It’s not a new frontier for him. He’s been there before. They say in Chinese zodiac that the rat is the luckiest of all the signs, but now his luck has run out. The men in white ready the lethal syringe and take hold of his now wasted body, but before the needle can prick his skin, he struggles against the man’s grip and breaks his own spine.

One smaller life form suffers. Twenty people live.

3. Number three is truly the quintessence of beauty. Garish bright yellow pus surrounding her eyes, bubbling blisters on her body, nursing her chemical burns in the corner of the tank, breathing shallowly. She’s had a complete makeover, the kind that any little girl would dream of: mascara, eyeliner, foundation, lipstick, hairspray – the works.

Maybe she was born with it?

4.Number four was here only a moment ago, before a latex-clad hand had firmly closed itself around him, lifting him out of the tank. It’s the hand of God, the claw that chooses our destiny. Now he’s on a table just in view, a pained, shrill squeak escaping his throat as the man in white administers the anesthetic. But it’s not enough. Now his skin is parted either side of him, held in place with pins, but his eyes glimmer with consciousness. Grotesque.

It’s not what’s on the outside that counts, it’s what’s inside.

5.Number five, or “Zucker” as the men in white sometimes call him, belongs to another container. He’s specifically bred to research obesity. Fa/fa genotypes precursor his fate. He waddles back and forth in his confinement, stomach dragging against the floor of the cage, the fat weighing down upon his lungs, making his breathing labored and painful. Even though he’s just finished his meal, he aches with hunger. He’s “hyperphagic”. That’s the man in white’s way of saying “he’ll always feel like he’s starving”.

Obesity is a growing epidemic, you know.

6. You used to be “number six”, but you’re here now. There are no numbers here. You feed off the month-old garbage outside of the houses. You feel the mud and grit between your claws. You bask in the multifarious sounds of the city: cars are passing by, footsteps trotting, police and ambulance sirens blaring, blending in euphonic harmony. The conception of music. The mighty skyscrapers reach up from the cement, like arms stretching out longingly to touch the heavens. A refreshing breeze ruffles your fur, carrying upon it the various smells of the streets, stark in contrast to the sterility of the lab.

No more mazes, no more injections, no more beauty products. No more men in white playing God.Your eyes feed off the color from the splashed billboard signs. There’s a woman on that billboard. She’s the effigy of perfection for women everywhere with her perfectly balanced, symmetrical features. She’s the simulacrum of consumerism. Another red ad in a sea of red ads.You notice a woman step out of the nearby cinema, taking a mirror and lipstick from her purse – likely the very same brand that saw the end of number three. You find yourself face-to-face with someone else playing God, feeding off their wallet, feasting on the 10%-off and buy-one-get-one-free deals that keep this city alive.

When she’s content with her appearance, she laughs to herself, snapping her mirror shut. She seems to admire the advertisement overhead, as though she were comparing herself against it. You laugh too. She’s playing, in the way that all people do. You’re playing too. But at the end of it all, you and her both are slaves to that red ad.

Dinny wrote:@ StarFireSong: That was really, really nice. I love it when people can pull off the emotive prose style without getting too trite. Was it inspired by anything particular in your life, personally (since you mentioned there was something personal about it)?

Thanks. It started out as something that needed to be written (one of those things that write itself), particularly the better part of the piece. The first 2 paragraphs & about 1/2 of the 3rd is actually personal. It's based on what I've observed of my parents' divorce, which is still proceeding now, & (hopefully) should be over sometime this month. I've been the unofficial therapist between the two of them (until I moved out), so that's where the first few paragraphs come from.